What if all possible
pain was only the grief of truth?
The throb lingering
only in the exit wounds
though the entries were the ones
that couldn’t close. As if either of those
was the most real of an assortment
of realities—existing, documented,
hanging like the sentenced
under one sky’s roof.
But my feelings, well,
they had no such proof.
Le besoin de sortir de soi.
L’homme est un animal adorateur.
Adorer, c’est se sacrifier et se prostituer. Aussi tout amour est-il prostitution.
Felix Vallotton, Clair de Lune, 1895